


Hard to Love

by Beckala



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty Bucky Barnes, Angsty Clint Barton, Bucky is in a rut, Canonical Character Death, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Ronin Clint Barton, Suicidal Thoughts, Using Pain to Ground Thoughts, and maybe a good kick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28351044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckala/pseuds/Beckala
Summary: With nothing to go back to after the battle with Thanos, Clint fades back into his life as Ronin looking to keep saving the world at any cost.With Steve gone to live his new life, Bucky is trying to figure out what living without a mission looks like for the first time in almost a hundred years.Neither of them is doing a very good job.Inspired by the songSunscreenby Ira Wolf
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 109
Collections: Excellent Clint Barton centric fiction





	Hard to Love

**Author's Note:**

> This story deals with some dark themes throughout including thoughts of suicide by bad guy and coping with the death of a best friend. There’s also several instances of a character using pain from injuries to “ground” themselves in the moment or control their emotional state. 
> 
> Please don’t read if those themes will make you uncomfortable or be an issue for you. 
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by the song _Sunscreen_ by Ira Wolf. You can find it here: https://youtu.be/BaK-99MrmHE You don’t have to listen to it to read the fic but it’s absolutely lovely and worth a listen if you have the time or inclination. 
> 
> The lyrics appear throughout in **_bold italics_**

The sound of flesh on flesh is almost obscene in the enclosed space. Clint takes the first wildly thrown punch to the face but ducks under the second, pushing the pain of what is certainly going to be a spectacular bruise down and forces himself to focus. Eight men already down and three more to go. He can take three, hell, he could take five more — not that he wants to. 

Clint swings his leg out wide to get remaining-goon-number-one on his back and throws his last available knife. He doesn’t pause to make sure it hits it’s mark, already turning into confrontation with the last two. They’re in the standard-issue yellow jumpsuits of AIM, ridiculous goggles covering their eyes and sometimes Clint is grateful he can’t look them in the eye when he kills them. Although other times he wishes he could. 

Goon number two shifts on his feet, even as his buddy pulls a knife and Clint smirks behind his mask. He’s got no knives left, he lost the gun in the first few minutes to a lucky hit, and the close quarters mean he can’t pull the Katana from the sheath between his shoulders. He takes a breath, forcing himself not to think about anything except what comes next. Goon two shifts again and Clint just nods, like they’d been waiting for permission; they both rush him, ready to fight. 

And this is what Clint loves about being Ronin. The rush of being alive that only this moment can give him anymore. The adrenaline of a fight with an uncertain end because there’s a moment there, when they’re both coming for him, that he thinks about not fighting back. He thinks about letting the struggle and the blood end, but then a knife flashes in his peripheral. A yellow clad arm raising it for an overhand strike and like instinct, his need to survive at all costs returns and he blocks, punches, parries, and kicks. 

And this is what Clint hates about being Ronin. Because at one point in the midst of all the fighting, while he’s high on adrenaline and falling back on instincts honed by years of combat experience he forgets. Forgets that he’s alone this time. Forgets that there’s no one at his back. Forgets that he isn’t going to see a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and that no one else is going to watch his six the way she did for so many years. He forgets she’s gone and it makes staying alive that much easier than it is when he remembers. 

He’s so outside the moment the sting of the blade low across his left flank is a surprise and he lashes out with an intensity he hasn’t had all night. One goon falls to a vicious punch to the face that cuts Clint’s knuckles open on the AIM issued goggles and the second takes his own knife in the neck when he’s dumb enough to let Clint get too close. Then they’re both on the ground, joining their nine colleagues and Clint is left standing in the center of his destruction breathing heavily as blood drips slowly onto the cement under his feet. 

The silence of the warehouse echoes around him and it’s just so wrong because there should be a lecture in Russian about being more careful. There should be the sound of repulsors ringing in his ears as clean up gets started. Someone should be making a joke about AIM’s latest hairbrained scheme. Clint should be already trying to avoid a trip to medical when they get back to base. 

Instead he’s standing in the middle of a one man massacre. Alone. 

**_I want someone_ **

  
  


It’s a long walk home, made longer by the need to stick to the shadows. Even this late at night most New Yorkers will look twice at a man wearing all black and carrying a sword. It doesn’t help that it’s starting to get cold and the building he’s been squatting in doesn’t have power, but murderers can’t really be choosers and that’s what he is now. So he ignores his aches from the fight and the chill in his fingers and toes as he climbs the rusty fire escape and carefully crawls through the unlocked window into the ratty apartment he’s claimed as his own. 

It’s a far cry from the warmth and mess of his old place in Bed Stuy and an even farther cry from the over decorated apartment he once had in the tower. Just a single room with a pile of blankets in one corner, but it has a roof and he’s slept rougher. He drops his weapons on their designated crate in the center of the room and carefully puts the flash drive he’d spent the night fighting for with the others under the loose floorboard near the sink. 

Necessities taken care of, he finally starts to strip out of the suit, taking stock of injuries as he goes. The knuckles are bad, the first three fingers of his left hand split like he’s some kind of rookie boxer who can’t tape worth a damn. The cut to his flank is shallow but long, no stitches needed, still sluggishly bleeding. He’s going to be bruised as fuck tomorrow but with nothing serious and no available first aid to speak of he just finishes stripping and throws himself into the pile of blankets. 

The gun he keeps under his single pillow is still there. He wraps a hand around the grip and rolls over onto his back to stare up at the stained ceiling. The fingers of his free hand trail down to drift over the slice in his side. She would have torn him to pieces for that one, for forgetting, for not being more careful, for not caring for it after the fact. He presses against the cut, his fingers forcing a new rush of hot blood from the broken flesh. The pain grounds him but not enough, because it’s wrong. 

Everything is wrong. 

Because they won. They fought the Mad Titan and they brought the entire world back from the brink. They put everything they had into one last push and they were victorious. 

Except he wasn’t. 

Because he lost everything before the final battle even began and even more after. Now all he has left is this. This endless slog through the evil that returned along with everyone else. This need to make a difference, to make it all worth it by finishing what they started. 

And he misses her. He misses them all. But mostly he misses her because she would be the one after the fight to look him up and down and know that he needed help. She would have dragged him back to base and forced him into medical’s care with a fond smile and an exasperated sigh, and then she would have taken him home. She would have pretended to be annoyed as she doled out painkillers like a mother hen and he would have soaked up her concern like a sponge. 

He closes his eyes against the rush of memory but it doesn’t help. So instead he presses harder against the cut until the pain is pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a bright slash across his mind, strong enough to force everything else away. 

**_To remind me to wear sunscreen / And take my vitamins when it slips my mind_ **

  
  


Wake up. Run. Shower. Breakfast. Read. Think about texting Wilson. Lunch. Read. Throw book at wall. Try reading a new book. Dinner. Sleep. Don’t think about Steve. 

That selfish fucking bastard. 

No one else on earth could drag a man back from the edge of madness after seventy years of murder and then abandon him in the future and still be so fucking noble. So above reproach. 

No one else could say until the end of the line with so much sincerity then speed up the train on purpose and still keep the moral high ground. 

No one else could make Bucky so happy for him and simultaneously so frustrated. 

He’ll say this for Steve, even after everything, he knew how to take care of his friends, because when the dust from their final battle with Thanos settled Bucky expected to be arrested. It didn’t really matter how many pretty words T’Challa said before they started, Bucky went into that fight expecting it to be his last. Seventy years of murder was still murder no matter how brainwashed he may have been. Instead, in the aftermath of everything it came out that Steve spent three of the five years Bucky was dust getting his name cleared. 

Everyone knew it only succeeded because no one in power expected those who’d been dusted to come back. It didn’t matter though, what was done was done, and Bucky suddenly found himself a free man for the first time in more than seven decades. He also found himself completely unsure of what to do with his new found freedom. 

So he went back to the makeshift base upstate. He played nice with Wilson while the other man transitioned from wings to shield. He tried to get to know the rest of the remaining team, the Hulk, Wanda, Lang -- but it just didn’t work. He was a man out of time and the only other person on the planet who could even begin to understand had fucked off to an alternate timeline. He can’t blame Steve though, not really, because he’s loved that punk like a brother since 1928 and nothing will change that. But he can be annoyed. 

He can also be lonely. 

He left the makeshift base after a few months. The rest of the team had too much history, too many things to be thankful for, too much waiting for them on the other side of everything they’d fought for. He thought about going back to Wakanda, slipping back into the role he’d played there and working off some of the debt he owed T’Challa and his people, but it felt too much like running away. Too much like going backwards when everyone around him was moving on. 

The apartment Pepper offered him in Brooklyn seemed like a terrible idea at first and not only because Tony died still hating him. Pepper was insistent though, said the place had been purchased for Steve before everything and now it would just sit empty if someone didn’t use it. She was a good woman and while Bucky can’t help feeling he’s taking advantage he still accepted. 

Then he settled in, started to figure out who he is now, learned the old neighborhood again, set up a routine. That’s all it is though. Something to keep him moving, keep him getting up in the morning, keep him from sliding backward. It’s not enough to help him move forward. Before the war, before everything, forward was victory over the Nazis, it was going home, it was finding someone to spend his days with, it was BBQs with Steve’s family and it was watching them all grow up and grow old in peace. 

Except Steve went to build his future in a place and a time Bucky can’t follow, even if he wanted to. So Bucky gets up every morning, goes for a run, takes a shower, eats breakfast, reads his book, putters around the too big apartement, eats lunch, reads some more, ignores the desperate pangs of loneliness, eats dinner, and goes to bed. 

Alone. 

Always alone. 

**_I want someone_ **

  
  


It’s the nights that are the worst. 

Because Bucky knows they don’t have to be the way they are now. There’d been a moment in time, a short stretch before that first battle in Wakanda, when he was out of Cryo and free of the triggers where he got to see what he could have had. He shared an apartment on the palace grounds with Steve and it’d been like their younger days. It’s the closest he thinks he’ll get to being the Bucky Barnes that Steve remembers ever again. 

They’d shared meals, jokes, card games, and music. 

Most importantly it meant Steve was there when things got to be too much. When the nightmares pulled Bucky from sleep and he woke still able to smell blood in the air there’d been someone else to share the weight with. Steve would lure him out onto the couch with warm milk and promises of absolution, then he’d listen while Bucky laid his sins out bare. Confessions sealed by a hundred year bond and life that no one else could ever understand. 

Tonight, the nightmare is brutal. He can still feel the blood coating his fingers and taste it where phantom arterial spray landed across his lips. He sits up in the bed, soaked in sweat and gasping for air, a knife in his metal hand already poised to fight off enemies that are long dead. He runs a hand through sweaty locks and lets out a slow breath. The apartment is quiet, so quiet, in the dim shade of four am in Brooklyn. He is grateful for the apartment but sometimes he wishes the updated windows and soundproofed walls let in more of the city’s noise because on nights like this the silence just makes it so much worse. 

There’s no point staying in bed. He won’t go back to sleep and no one is going to come check on him, not here. The floor is cold under his bare feet as he pads into the kitchen and sets to making a pot of coffee. He’s never been able to warm milk without burning it and there’s no point bringing memories to the surface like that. Instead, he stalks across the open living room, moving between the big leather couch and end tables picked with Steve’s tastes in mind to pull open the curtains. 

The street below is quiet, the pavement still damp from a late night rainfall and Bucky indulges his need to check his surroundings, eyes scanning the residential buildings visible from this angle. He lets out another slow breath. This is a wealthy street, well lit, almost all the buildings have doormen and the sidewalks are dotted with planters kept up by co-op boards and bored ladies who lunch. Even if it wasn’t, there’s nothing of Hydra left to come for him. Like most of the Avenger’s enemies Hydra was gutted by the snap and didn’t recover. 

He’s safe here. He’s bored here. He’s lonely here. 

The coffee maker sounds across the room and he lets the curtains fall to go retrieve a cup. Fixing it up the way he likes, with two sugars and milk, he crosses back to the wide recliner he has no doubt Tony picked out thinking of Steve’s considerable bulk and drops down into it with a groan. His mind is muddled with the memories of the nightmare and he looks around the empty room with a soft sigh. He could get an early start on the routine, his eyes flick back to the window. If it rained while he was sleeping it means it might rain again soon, may as well get started on his run while the skies are being kind. He drains the coffee and goes to change. 

**_Who knows how I like my coffee / And wants to share a bed from morning to night_ **

  
  


Clint doesn’t really sleep. Or maybe he does and he doesn't remember. What he does know is that he finally gives up all pretense of trying around four am, completely giving in to the adrenaline still flooding his system. There’s a long moment where he considers going to the building in Bed Stuy, where he knows Kate still keeps the apartment stocked with first aid and comfort. Instead he drags himself off his blanket pile, washes up as best he can with the still running water, pulls on his few non Ronin themed clothes, and goes out. 

The streets are wet and the air has a snap to it, the first brush of winter. The first winter since the return of over half the Earth’s population. Winter used to mean fragrant hot tea spiced with Russian jam and bright purple scarves. It used to mean crisp red apples snatched from his mouth mid-bite and whining about the logical fallacy of cold soup. Now it just means he should probably start looking for a new place to squat that still has power, or at least a fireplace. 

It’s getting harder and harder to live the way he does. As people move back to the city, as jobs return, as the economy recovers, the number of abandoned buildings is going down and neighborhoods that suffered during the snap are starting to bounce back, finding their footing again. He can’t blame the masses for wanting to get back what they lost even if it means he has to move further and further into the fringes. 

That’s where he belongs. 

He thought about going back. After Thanos fell and Tony was gone, he thought about joining the rest of the team in their efforts to rebuild and move on but he stood on the edge of that muddy field and he saw them celebrating and all he could think about was what they’d lost. It felt wrong to bring his darkness, the blood on his hands, the destruction he was capable of into that bubble of joy. He turned away instead, decided that if he couldn’t be a part of it the least he could do was protect it. 

She’d died for it after all. Thrown herself from that cliff to make sure everyone got a chance at being whole. 

Clint has never been whole. He’s pretty sure he was born with pieces of himself missing, probably some of the important ones. He thought he’d put himself back together once upon a time but Thanos and his own fall into the Ronin persona were proof he’d been broken all along. So he set out to finish what they’d started; saving the world. 

He’s trying to do it the only way he knows how these days. With blood. 

Thanos is dead, the Chithari demolished, Loki finally gone for good, Madame Masque seemingly retired, Dr. Doom caught up rebuilding his country. The only group left playing Big Bad to Clint’s anti-hero is AIM and he’s so close to shutting them down for good. They weren’t large to begin with, how could they be after five years with almost no one to recruit. They still have plans though, plans focused on bringing chaos and death to a world that’s had enough. Clint’s fighting dirty so no one else has to, because who will miss him -- no one has yet. 

The sun is starting to paint the sky pink when he realizes his feet have carried him away from his usual brooding path through the city and towards a very familiar spot. He stops on the other side of the street and studies the still recognizable facade, a wooden front with wide glass windows, and the sign over the door; _Kofe._

He brought her here as a joke once because he thought the idea of a coffee shop using the Russian word for coffee to sound classy for Americans was hilarious. The joke had been on him when she’d declared their latte one of the best she’d ever had and he’d been forced to trudge deep into Brooklyn to get her caffeine and pastries whenever he’d needed forgiveness for something small. He’s amazed the place is still around. He hasn’t been here for years but it appears they survived the snap, or reopened after it. 

He spends a long moment debating his next move but the draw is too much. It looks warm inside, the windows already fogged up against the early morning chill and he knows they’ll have good pastry, not to mention dark roast. He crosses the street and ducks into the small shop. There are a few other early birds in the line at the counter but all the tables are free and he joins the queue. 

The menu is the same and the bakery case is as packed as he remembers. By the time he reaches the register to order his large dark roast with two sugars and milk and two bear claws he’s almost salivating. It’s been a long time since he let himself have something other than instant coffee and the smell of fresh roasted beans is thick in the small space. Ignoring the concerned looks from the barista at his battered knuckles and bruised face he waits patiently for his order and then settles at the table in the far back corner. 

It’s the perfect table, two people can sit with their backs to the wall and have perfect sightlines of the front door, staff entrance, and kitchen doors without turning their heads. He puts his food down on the rough surface before his eyes can scan for the familiar _N + C were here_ scratched into the wood. The result of his own knife and an hour of boredom one afternoon when she felt he needed a stern lecture on his disastrous love life. 

He should have picked another table but he needs the sightlines more than ever these days. 

They don’t end up doing him any good. 

He’s halfway through the first bear claw, the giant cup of coffee at his lips, tipped back so all he can see is dark tan liquid heading for his mouth when the scrape of a chair startles him so badly he drops the cup. A knife is in his hand under the table, his entire body tensed and ready to spring into a fight before his brain catches up with what he’s seeing and he freezes. 

Because standing across him from, healthy as fuck, and looking like he just finished a bracing run through the chilly New York streets is James Barnes. Or is he the Winter Soldier? The former Winter Soldier but now James “Bucky” Barnes? It doesn’t really matter who he is because he’s supposed to be with the team. He’s supposed to be at that new base Clint keeps seeing in the papers. He’s supposed to be enjoying his new stress free life while Clint does the dirty work. 

“Barton is that you?” Barnes still has that bit of Brooklyn drawl he’d had when they’d spent all those months in Wakanda on the run. It feels like a lifetime ago. “Barton, what are you doing here?” He looks so genuinely concerned standing there holding his own coffee, dressed in fitted work out gear, and Clint has never felt more like scum. 

Clint can’t make his mouth move, he just sits there dumb, coffee dripping off his lap from the dropped cup. “Are you--” Barnes goes to pull out the other chair at the table as he speaks and Clint knows the moment his eyes find the glint of the knife because he goes very still, his entire stance changing to one that’s more alert, more dangerous. 

“Is that for me or have I walked into something?” There’s no trace of the drawl now and Clint just stares up at him so out of his element he has no idea what to do. “Okay.” Barnes says and then shakes himself, “Okay, I’m going to sit down and you can keep that out but if you stab me you should know I’ll stab you back.” Clint’s eyes scan Barnes’ body and he can’t see a single indication that the man is armed but then the former Winter Soldier probably doesn’t have to be and Clint is still so shaky from last night it would barely be a fight. 

He watches Barnes fold himself into the small wooden chair and Clint can’t help staring at his pink cheeks, dark wisps of hair sticking to his forehead where they’ve escaped his hair tie. It’s almost too much, pulling Clint back to those months after the escape from the raft. When Barnes and Steve came like angels of justice to pull them all free and take them to Wakanda. Clint remembers thinking Barnes was unfairly pretty even then and now he’s clearly been living a good life because he’s whole and hale in the way Clint hopes they all are. 

“I need you to tell me if we’re in the middle of something here.” Barnes breaks the silence and Clint refocuses, realizing almost stupidly that the other man’s pale gray eyes are scanning the coffee shop in a patterned search for a threat. 

“No.” Clint tries but what comes out is more of a croak and he can’t remember the last time he talked to someone. At this point he wears his hearing aids for security not communication. “No,” he tries again, “just startled me.” He carefully pulls the knife back, tucking it into the holster on his side as Barnes relaxes and nods as though that’s a perfectly acceptable reason to pull a knife on an old friend and maybe for him it is. 

“Are you in the city for work?” Barnes points at his own face as he speaks and Clint winces. He knows what he looks like, black eye and bruising over one cheek, the split knuckles, holding himself to the side due to bruised ribs and the cut on his left. Still, the question is shocking because Barnes was at the Avengers base, at least he was last Clint knew, so he should know Clint doesn’t work anymore so much as he rains down destruction without official mandate and plans to continue until he gets caught by what’s left of SHIELD or dies. Whichever comes first. “I thought you were taking a break? Wilson said something about you having a farm.” 

“A farm?” Clint can’t help himself because what the actual fuck. Do the rest of them think he’s run off to that old piece of shit to what, retire? It would explain the lack of pleas that he stop his months long rampage. “I mean I do have a farm but I’ve been here. In the city.” He stares down at his coffee covered lap. 

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry. I got distracted by the blade but you dropped your coffee. Hold on--” Barnes is already up and moving. Walking to the counter and talking to the barista and pulling napkins out of the container by the lid station with his metal hand. Clint just stares. 

What is this? Could it be a set up? If Clint was SHIELD or the Avengers and he wanted to stop Ronin he would send her in and if she wasn’t available -- well the next best thing is the former Winter Soldier right? His eyes dart around the shop and there’s a man in a suit at the counter, an agent? Clint would have put a plain clothes there to catch a target trying to escape. There’s a woman just outside the front door with a stroller, but a stroller doesn’t have to hold a baby. 

He’s so close to shutting down AIM for good, he can’t get caught now. It would be so easy too, he let his guard down for a few kind words from someone he recognized. It would be so easy to forget why he’s doing this. To relax. To let himself accept something he doesn’t deserve. 

He bolts. Waiting until Barnes has his back turned at the lid station to abandon the food and the table for the security of open air through the back door. He pulls the hood on his jacket up, hands in pockets, and tries to blend into the early morning commuters. He’s a block away from the coffee shop and four steps from the alley he needs to cut across to a busier street when the hand grabs his elbow. His reaction is ferocious, dropping his weight to break the hold he spins as he pulls a blade, stepping forward to press his attacker against the rough bricks of the building on his right. 

“I fucking dare you.” Barnes’ eyes are fierce, his mouth a grim line, and Clint is very aware of the knife pressed against his sternum even as his own blade is pressing just below Barnes’ bellybutton. Barnes is still holding a paper bag from the coffee shop in his free hand and it throws Clint just enough that he shifts his weight back so his knife is just kissing skin instead of digging in. 

“Why are you following me?” Clint hisses and he risks a scan of their immediate area but there’s no one else in sight. 

“You left without your breakfast.” Barnes says slowly, like he’s talking to an idiot and maybe he is. “I don’t plan to hurt you unless you make me.” 

“The man in the suit? The woman with the stroller?” Clint gets out but he’s already headed for trouble, he can feel it in his shaking fingers and spotty vision. 

“Were customers at the coffee shop?” Barnes says slowly and then clearly noticing Clint’s distress, “Barton are you okay?” The knife at Clint’s chest disappears and is replaced with a warm flesh hand pressed against his cheek, “You’re not are you. What are you doing in the city?” 

The hand clutching his knife feels weak and Clint struggles to get a breath in, because this wasn’t a plot, it was just an old sort-of friend running into him and he’s a disaster and he’s never been less capable of human interaction. He takes a stumbling step back from Barnes and without the solid length of him feels his knees start to go weak. He sucks in another breath but he knows it’s not enough, nothing is enough anymore. 

“I’m so sorry.” Clint whispers and Barnes’ concerned face floats in front of him as his fingers finally give out and the knife falls. 

“Jesus fucking christ.” Barnes mutters and then there’s a strong arm around Clint’s middle, holding him up and tugging him forward on wobbly legs until they’ve taken the four steps left to the alley Clint had been aiming for in the first place. Barnes is almost gentle as he lowers Clint down until he’s sitting on the cold cement with his back pressed against brick and the chill more than anything else grounds him. There’s a rustle as Barnes disappears again and Clint uses the moment alone to slide a hand under his jacket and shirt to press fingers against the still fresh cut in his side, the pain is a spark of reality in a morning that feels unreal. 

“What are you doing?” And either Barnes is amazingly stealthy or Clint’s situational awareness really is shit because he did not hear him come back but there he is staring down at Clint, his eyes zeroed in on the hand tucked up under the shirt. Clint opens his mouth to try and explain but Barnes must see something that clues him in because he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat then drops down to a squat in front of Clint. “Does it need stitches?” 

“No.” Clint gets out even as his fingers press against the scabs that have already formed. “It’s already scabbed over. Long but shallow.” 

“You want your knife back?” Barnes holds out the blade Clint dropped handle first, “You can even keep pointing it at me if it makes you feel better.” 

Clint snorts a laugh at that. “I take it you don’t think I could take you?” 

“In this condition?” Barnes gives him an appraising look, “No. You’re about fifteen pounds under your ideal fighting weight, exhausted, dehydrated, and if I’m not mistaken you’ve got some bruised ribs on the left to go with that cut.” Barnes reaches out and takes Clint’s chin in one hand, forcing his face up and turning his head from side to side, “I think you might also be concussed.” He finishes softly. 

“Doing a lot of touching without permission for someone with your history.” Clint snips before finally reaching out to snatch the knife. 

Barnes blushes, actually blushes. The soft pink of his embarrassment climbing from his neck up onto his face in a way that’s mesmerizing. “I’m sorry.” He says and then swallows, “I’m just used to helping out beat up blonds in alleys. Old habits.” And that makes so much sense Clint’s chest aches. 

He licks his lips, “It’s okay,” he says, “you’re right about all of it.” 

Barnes laughs, a short aborted noise in the still air, “Like I said, lots of experience.” He gives Clint a long look, “I know you’re not here for the Avengers,” he says but it doesn’t sound like an accusation. “I don’t know what you’re doing but do you need help?” 

“No.” Clint rushes the answer and Barnes just nods. 

“Okay.” He swallows again and then picks something up pushing it towards Clint and he’s shocked to see it’s the bag from the coffee shop, barely rumpled. “There’s a coffee in there and three more bear claws.” There’s a long pause and then, “Do you have a phone?” 

“No.” Clint says because his last phone was destroyed a few weeks ago and he hasn’t bothered with a new one. He has no one to call. 

“Right,” Barnes says as though this makes perfect sense to him, as though Clint isn’t a human disaster in front of him, “Take mine,” he pulls a slick looking device as though from thin air and Clint blinks at it, “I updated it a few times, no tracking, no one can trace it. I’ll get another today and text you the number. I live in Brooklyn, in Cobble Hill if you can believe it, you can come there if you need help.” 

Clint eyes the phone warily, “You’re not going to force me to come in?” Barnes shakes his head. 

“Do you want to come in?” He asks and his expression is exasperated and almost fond in a way that forces Clint to look away. 

“No, I have things to finish.” Clint blinks slowly and looks down at the paper bag now sitting in his lap before looking back up to see Barnes watching him with empathetic eyes. 

“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch Barton, I’m just trying to help you” Barnes says roughly and then pushes the phone into Clint’s free hand. “Let me do this.” 

It’s the last part that gets to Clint because it’s almost a plea but stil, “I don’t need help. I get on fine on my own.” 

“I can see that.” Barnes agrees sharply, “Eat the fucking pastry. Don’t trash the phone.” Then, to Clint’s absolute surprise, he stands up, tucks his hands into the pockets of his track pants and shuffles his feet. “Take care of yourself.” And he turns around and walks away. 

**_But I'm stubborn_ **

  
  


It took every ounce of self control Bucky has to walk away from that alley but he does it. He puts one foot in front of the other because he knows what a quest for absolution looks like and he knows that they don’t end until they end. 

Still. Oh and still. He wants to help. He can’t help it because the way his heart jumped when he saw Clint Barton’s familiar face in that tiny coffee shop had been a shock to the system. And wasn’t it just Bucky’s luck that the one day he decided to break his routine, to try something new, he stumbled into far more than he was really prepared to handle. He’d been on alert at first, worried he’d stumbled into some kind of sting operation but the longer he looked at the other man, the more details he took in, the more it became clear he’d caught the archer in something else. 

He was a mess, looking like one giant bruise about ready to fall off his chair, and clearly weak. Honestly the knife pulled under the table, with Barton’s thin face, and wide scared eyes had reminded Bucky of a kitten he’d saved as a child. It was the same fierce determination coupled with almost indignant fear and it’d made something protective surge inside Bucky’s chest in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It’s the only explanation he can offer for touching the man as much as he did when they’d been in the alley because Barton was right, Bucky did know what it felt like to have someone touch you without permission and he never would have crossed that line. But the other man looked so sad and beaten, Bucky wanted to bundle him up, take him home, and feed him until he was the Barton he remembered. 

They hadn’t spent a lot of time together in between The Raft and Bucky going into cryo but it’d been enough to leave an impression. Barton then had been all easy smiles, messy hair, snarky comments and endless flirting. He was the one most likely to make light of their status as international fugitives. The one most likely to insist they all watch a movie together. The one to insist T’Challa provide them a real coffee maker. 

The man Bucky left in that alley wasn’t even a shade of what he remembers. He’s also clearly deep into whatever he’s been up to. Bucky didn’t miss the hand under the shirt, the smear of blood against a pale wrist, the wrinkle in his brow. Bucky used to use pain to ground himself when he was the soldier. Pain in combat was not to be ignored, it was to be embraced so that he could continue on and complete the mission. The idea of Barton doing that to himself without a handler standing over him giving orders makes Bucky feel lightheaded with the implications. 

With his routine effectively destroyed, it’s nothing to stop by the store on the way home for another phone. Nothing to update this new one to be as untraceable as the one he’d left behind with the wayward archer. Nothing to get it all set up and then send a text to his old number to share the new number and then because he can’t help himself, another with his address, repeating the offer of safe haven. There’s no reply but then Bucky hadn’t really expected one. At least not right away. In fact, he’s really just hoping Barton ate the food he left behind. If he kept the phone it would be a miracle. 

It creates a new routine though because now he wakes up, checks his phone, runs, checks his phone, showers, checks his phone, eats breakfast, checks his phone, stares at the phone while pretending to read, lies to Wilson about why he got a new number, eats lunch, stares at the phone while pretending to watch TV, runs diagnostics on the phone to make sure it’s working, eats dinner, makes sure the volume is up all the way so an incoming text will wake him, goes to bed. 

He’s in week two of the new routine without a hint of Clint when Wilson calls. It’s such a departure from his occasional check in text that Bucky almost trips on his way to answer, so sure it’s going to be Barton. He grimaces when he sees Sam’s face but still swipes to answer, tucking the phone between his shoulder and chin. 

“Barnes.” He barks and ignores Sam’s resulting laugh. 

“Come on man, is that really how you answer the phone? You knew it was me.” Sam sounds happy and Bucky can hear chatter in the background, a sure sign that he’s called from the midst of some team event. 

“What do you want?” Bucky asks and it’s probably not a great idea to antagonize the only person who’s called him in months but it’s just Wilson. 

“I actually need a favor. We’ve been keeping an eye on things internationally from here but we keep getting reports out of New York that have some of the team worried.” Sam’s voice has gone serious and the background noise fades as he moves somewhere quieter to talk. 

“What kind of reports?” Bucky has a feeling he’s not going to like the answer and there’s already a churning feeling in his gut. 

“It seems there’s a vigilante taking out AIM cells. Real bloody. The NYPD thought it was one of us but it’s not anyone still here, Lang’s out west with his kid, Barton’s still on that farm or something, and I know AIM isn’t really on your personal hit list,” there’s a beat, “right?” 

“Right.” Bucky agrees easily but he can already feel puzzle pieces clicking into place and he rubs at the bridge of his nose with metal fingers. “I haven’t heard anything but I haven’t really been listening.” He lies easily. “Did you want me to look into it?” 

“No need to go to any trouble. Just if you hear anything let us know. We may need you to jump in if things get bigger but I’ll be in touch.” Sam sounds reassured and Bucky intends to keep him that way. 

“You got it.” Bucky agrees, “Say hi to…” he trails off because who there would be happy to hear from him, “just hi to everyone.” He finishes lamely. 

“Of course man. Take care of yourself. You’ll have to come visit us soon.” The background noise is back and Sam already sounds distracted. 

“Will do.” Bucky agrees and then lowers the phone and taps the end button. 

So Barton is trying to take out AIM. Not what Bucky expected but not incredibly surprising either. He stares down at the phone for a long moment. He hasn’t sent a follow up text after those first two. He made sure they got the little delivered mark and then he just trusted Barton to reach out if he needed help. There’s a few seconds of debate and then he gives up and opens the message app. There’s only three conversations, one with Wilson’s check in texts, one with Wanda about Wilson being an idiot, and the one with Barton. 

Bucky taps the third and types: 

_Why not leave a few AIM goons for the rest of us?_

He hits send before he can rethink it and then locks the phone, setting it down on the table. He’s just about to pick his book back up when the screen lights up and the violently loud text sound Bucky assigned to Barton’s contact fills the room. He snatches up the phone with a hand he will never admit is shaking and swipes to read: 

_What can I say? I’m a greedy bastard when it comes to wiping my slate clean._

**_Selfish_ **

  
  


Cint stares down at the phone still lit up with his reply. He has no idea what possessed him. He’s had the phone for weeks, he’s ignored it, if you count keeping it charged and carefully tucked in the most protective pocket of whatever he’s wearing ignoring it. He knows it’s risky, Barnes said it was untrackable but he could be lying. He could still be planning to bring Clint in and make him face the consequences. 

Clint certainly hasn’t helped by basically confirming his plans with that text. 

He can’t help himself though. He drags a palm down his face and groans. Now he’s really going to have to relocate, although that’s been more than a month coming. Winter has settled almost completely over New York and the shitty apartment has just gotten colder. It hasn’t been so bad the last few days, although Clint is pretty sure he’s been running a fever thanks to a new stab wound courtesy of an AIM goon at the last base he cleared out. 

He stares at the phone daring it to go off again but it stays still and quiet. Good. 

It takes him another hour to muster the strength to get up and pack his gear. He’s gotten good at it these last few months, falling back on old habits to pack light, never keeping things he doesn’t need. She’d be proud. She used to moan over his tendency to be a pack rat, struggling to keep to the two bag limit on missions. It wasn’t his fault he needed to bring all those extra arrows. Now though, everything he owns goes into one bag, the sword carefully tucked along the back so it’s not obvious. He leaves most of the blankets and then stops to stare at the phone. 

If it is traceable, taking it would make moving on meaningless. It would be smarter to leave it behind. It would make finishing his mission easier. She would leave it behind. 

He tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket and tries not to think about how he can feel the electronic warmth of the battery through his t-shirt. 

It’s two weeks and four AIM fights later when it goes off again. Clint is perched on the roof of his new abandoned building, one with heat thank you very much. He’s trying to figure out if the nasty looking burn on his calf will heal up without help or if he needs to seek out better first aid supplies. It isn’t his worst injury to date but it had been a close call. He hadn’t known the base, built into the basement of a tiny tenement in Queens, was rigged to blow. Only realizing when one of the goons let it slip in a terrible attempt at monologuing. Goons these days really didn’t understand how these things worked — only the final boss was supposed to monologue — and Clint is pretty sure he’s getting close to the Big Bad but this guy wasn’t it. 

None of it mattered though because mid monologue the other man mentioned the explosives and Clint — no Ronin — sprung into action. He’d barely made it up the stairs before the heat of the explosion followed him out onto the street. It hadn’t taken the building down but it was a close thing and it all drew far too much attention for Clint’s comfort. Further proof: the phone now buzzing for a second time in his hand. 

He slides a finger over the touch screen and the texts appear: 

_I hear you’ve been out fighting again. I’m hurt you didn’t call._

Clint snorts. He has no idea if Barnes is serious but if there is anyone still alive who would think taking out an AIM cell was a nice Thursday night it would certainly be that metal armed asshole. Clint’s fingers hover over the keyboard for a long time because what can he say. Does he admit to the whole thing? That he’s so close to finishing it so they can all be safe. That he just has to get through these next few weeks, these next few fights, and then he can find some peace. 

He doesn’t want to lay all that at Barnes’ feet. If anything Barnes is a huge part of why he’s doing this. He remembers the man who stood just over Steve’s shoulder that night on The Raft, metal arm still mangled, looking grim and determined. He also remembers the man who came out of Cryo in Wakanda and found the strength to laugh after everything. Seventy years of torture and the man is clearly living his best life post snap. Cint doesn’t need to drag him down into this shit. If anyone deserves to be clear of the fallout from human disaster Clint Barton, it’s Bucky fucking Barnes. 

Still. Clint misses banter. He misses flirting. He misses making light of the worst. So he types: 

_What’s wrong, you jealous?_

The response is immediate: 

_Maybe._

**_Easily jealous at times_ **

  
  


Bucky runs a rough hand through his hair. He shouldn’t be doing this.

In the weeks since Sam’s first call the frequency of bloody AIM crime scenes has increased and Sam has started to check in more regularly, certain now that they’re dealing with some kind of vigilante. He hasn’t gone so far as to bring the team into the city but he has sent Bucky a whole bunch of information and asked him to keep an eye out. 

Bucky knows he should just tell him. Explain that he not only knows who their vigilante is but also exactly where he is because while the phone he gave Barton is untraceable, the man himself isn’t. Bucky tried not to, tried very hard to stick to his routine and not succumb to the urge but as things escalated these last few weeks and the compulsion became too much. It took longer than Bucky would like to admit, and he can blame that on rusty skills or Barton’s experience, but he’d still found him. Trailed him from his sad abandoned building to his last two raids and watched from a distance while Barton shed blood like it was water. The sword was new. The fierce determination wasn’t. 

Once he found him the routine went right out the window. There was no routine now. 

There was only this. 

Bucky almost intervened a week ago when he watched Barton stumble, almost not making it, out of a hidden basement door just in front of a wall of flame. The other man made it though, pausing only long enough to catch his breath before limping away and Bucky just crouched in his well hidden blind trying to figure out why his heart was in his throat over a man he barely knows. The answer is simple enough if he’s willing to examine it, too bad he’s not. 

Now here he is watching Barton try to climb back into his squat with a shoulder that looks dislocated. He waits for an agonizing twenty minutes while Barton scrambles up the fire escape moving far too slow. He waits until the dim light in the newspaper window indicates the other man is in for the night. He waits until his heartbeat slows enough for him to take a full breath. He waits until he’s all the way back in his living room in Cobble Hill to pull out his phone: 

_You’re getting sloppy. That explosion last week made the news._

No point helping Barton realize how close he’s really been. He doesn’t expect a reply considering the shape the other man was in so when the phone buzzes seconds later Bucky jumps. 

_No point worrying about me. No one else does._

Bucky frowns. It’s not true. He knows that if the team knew Barton wasn’t retired on some farm and was instead waging a one man war on AIM they’d be in the city within hours. They’d help, they’d solve it, then they’d clean him up and offer him anything and everything. But Bucky knows that pain. He knows what it feels like to think no one wants you. To think that no one cares because you’re too far gone to be redeemed. 

**_I'm hard to love_ **

  
  


He doesn’t even think about his reply. Just types it out and hits send: 

_Well, now I do._

**_And I just want someone / To try_ **

  
  


Clint is mid fight and things are not going well. 

Things are not going well at all. 

Cint is self aware enough to admit that things probably haven’t been going well for quite a while now. It goes way back to before this fight, probably to that explosion a few weeks ago or maybe the week after when he’d dislocated his shoulder and then not let it heal before diving back into things. Maybe things have been going off the rails since that fight in the warehouse almost two months ago now, the one right before he ran into Barnes. 

Barnes is going to be so pissed when Clint turns up dead. 

He’d said he cared and Clint never replied, just let the declaration hang there on the bright phone screen with no response. If he’s honest it’s because he’d lost the ability to breathe but he likes to think it’s because he didn’t want to do that to Barnes. Seems almost cruel to let the man think caring is worthwhile. Not when Clint has a mission and he’s going to see it through even if it means he has to give his life to do it. 

If it was good enough for her it’s certainly good enough for him. He can be a hero too. 

That’s really how he knows he’s in a bad spot. 

Because he’s still fighting, his body reacting on instinct to the hands and feet and weapons being aimed in his direction, but he’s also got one hand pressed tight against the stab wound in his stomach and the other isn’t holding a blade anymore. He’s killed a lot of them, he can see their bodies on the ground but the rest just keep coming and he can see red, every time he turns his head the right way he can see it. The flash of bright red that meant safety in a fight for so much of his life and he knows, _he knows,_ that she’s not here but maybe for once she is. 

Because if anyone was going to show up at the last minute. If anyone was going to come back from the dead. If anyone was going to appear to pull him out of this mess it would be her. 

No one else has ever bothered. 

Until recently. 

And maybe that’s why the sudden flash of metal on his left isn’t so shocking. Why the body suddenly pressed against his back is more comforting than scary, even if it’s not the right size. Why he doesn’t fight it when his knees give out. 

From his new spot on the ground surrounded by his many victims it doesn’t seem that odd at all to see Barnes standing over him like some kind of cyborg angel of death. He’s still so pretty, even with blood splatter on his face and his eyes fierce and flashing. More pretty this way even. So Clint lets the fingers on his stab wound go slack because if this is what welcomes him into the afterlife, and she’ll be there, maybe it’s not all that bad. 

Instead, he wakes up in a very soft bed with very soft sheets and for a long moment he just lays there trying to figure out how he feels about still being deaf in the afterlife. He’s also not sure how he feels about everything hurting in the afterlife. It’s the pain more than anything that has him finally dragging his eyes open to look around what is apparently a very nice bedroom. Heavy wooden furniture, old fashioned art, a wingback chair by a curtained window. 

Trying to ignore the swimming feeling in his head Clint pulls himself up to sitting and looks around groggily for his hearing aids. He finds the aids, cleaned and charging on the nightstand, his Ronin gear and weapons carefully settled on the chest at the end of the bed. Well if he’s been captured at least they’re considerate captors. Putting the aids in, he pulls himself to his feet and tries not to think about the fact that he’s wearing someone else’s clothes, the sweatpants a little short, and the shirt a little tight across the shoulders. The wound in his stomach sends another sharp jolt of pain through his core as he tries to balance on unstable feet. 

So not dead and clearly somewhere new. He’s also apparently not a prisoner, no restraints, the bedroom door cracked open just enough to let in the smell of coffee and the faint sounds of … is that Etta James? Clint ignores the pain and shuffles to the door, leaning heavily on the handle he swings it open and looks out into a well decorated living room, open kitchen, and sitting in a massive chair, James Barnes. 

James Barnes, looking sleepy and rumpled in his own set of sweatpants and a t-shirt. James Barnes, with a cup of coffee balanced on one knee and a newspaper in his hand. James Barnes, staring at Clint with half lidded eyes, concern still evident. 

Clint’s knees feel a little weak and he’s not sure if it’s the injury, his probable concussion, the lack of coffee, or the look Barnes is giving him but he is suddenly very aware that he’s not going to be supporting himself for much longer. Barnes seems to figure it out around the same time Clint does because even as the room starts to swim, the other man is moving. Making it to Cint just in time to catch him around the middle as he stumbles. Barnes’ hands are steady and Clint doesn’t really have the brain power to think about the way it feels before he’s being manhandled onto a plush couch and pressed into the cushions. 

“Just stay.” Barnes says, his voice low and rough. 

Clint nods and pushes his head back further into the cushions. So he hadn’t imagined Barnes showing up last night. There’s a lot of implications that go with that, not the least of which is how Barnes knew where he was but Clint’s not sure he has the mental capacity to think that through all the way right now. It’s too early in the morning and he’s feeling too raw, too hurt. He needs to get out of here. 

But then Barnes is back and holding out a steaming mug of coffee and Clint feels all desire to leave just float away. He’s injured, he’s tired, he’s so tired, and there’s coffee. Good coffee by the smell of it. He takes the mug and holds it loosely in both hands. Barnes doesn’t say anything, just heads back over to his chair and picks his newspaper up and starts to read again. 

Clint stares down at the coffee for a long moment, still expecting the lecture or interrogation, but when nothing comes he lets himself relax. He can do this. He can sit here and drink coffee and be quiet and feel warm and safe. Because he does feel safe, and it seems a little wrong to be safe when she’s dead but maybe she wouldn’t be mad if he took just one morning off. One morning to just be for a while and let something a little bit like calm sink in and settle him until he’s ready to get going again. One morning to pretend that someone still cares for him and he’s possibly capable of caring back. 

He sips at his coffee and stares at Barnes, he looks completely relaxed, eyes locked on his paper, occasionally drinking his coffee. Clint has no doubt the former Winter Soldier is absolutely aware that he’s being watched but he doesn’t give any outward indication so Clint just continues to stare. He takes in the gray eyes, soft shaggy hair, full lips, stubble covered jaw, muscled shoulders, and thick thighs. 

So pretty. So not meant for Clint. 

He doesn’t move though. Just takes another long drink and lets himself pretend that this is something he could have. 

**_I want someone / Who knows that I'm not made for mornings_ **

  
  


Bucky is confused. It’s been a week since he pulled an injured Barton out of a fight with AIM, patched him up, and fed him coffee until he’d gotten dressed and left. Bucky let him leave. More than let him, packed him a bag with some extra supplies, a spare key to the apartment hidden in the bottom, and gave him directions to the closest subway station. He’s still conflicted over the whole thing because what he’d wanted to do is cocoon Barton in bubble wrap and tie him to the guest bed until his stab wound healed. 

A week the other man has been in the wind, and Bucky’s routine has been further destroyed. He spent a few days trying to trail the former archer, he continued to lie to Sam about what’s going on with AIM, and he struggled to get his head on straight. So here he is, sitting in a bar, with a glass of something amber and sharp in front of him worried out of his mind for yet another blond disaster. 

He can’t help it. There’s just something about Clint Barton. 

At first Bucky worried he was transferring concern from Steve to Barton, he has no doubt this is what Sam would tell him if he was willing to open up about it. Now though, he’s pretty sure that’s not it, because he never looked at Steve when he was asleep and thought about how soft his lips looked and he certainly never had to work so hard to keep his eyes off Steve’s biceps as they flexed under a too small t-shirt. So even if the desire to protect and save is familiar, the why feels completely new. 

He runs a hand through his hair and takes another cigarette from the pack in front of him. One benefit to Steve being gone, no one to rag on him for wanting a smoke with his whiskey. He’s just lit the cig and is exhaling a thick cloud of smoke towards the dingy ceiling of the bar when he feels someone slide on to the stool next to him. Turning to find out who felt it was a good idea to bother the guy with the metal arm and the don’t fuck with me posture, he freezes when he finds himself staring into familiar blue eyes. 

“Can I get one of those?” Barton’s voice is thick and while he certainly looks better than the last few times Bucky’s seen him, there are still bags under his eyes and several days of stubble on his chin. His messy mohawk is flat against his head. 

“Help yourself.” Bucky says, trying to force his heart to slow down, because this is the first time Barton has sought him out. The first time he’s been the one to initiate contact. 

“Thanks.” He says and Bucky is mesmerized watching the path of the cigarette as Barton puts it to his pursed lips and uses the cheap Bic to set the tip alight. “So you’ve been following me huh?” Barton asks around an exhale of smoke and Bucky’s mind races. 

For a moment he thinks about denying it but why bother. “Yep.” He finally agrees, popping the P and then taking a sip of his drink. 

“For the Avengers?” Barton asks before taking another long drag of his smoke and Bucky has never been jealous of a cigarette before but here he is, over a hundred years old, still experiencing new things. 

He realizes Barton is staring at him waiting for an answer and he shakes his head. “No, not for the Avengers.” He waits a beat and then adds, “Just seems like you’re on a mission you need to complete and it wouldn’t hurt to make sure you have a little backup.” 

Barton’s eyes widen at that and then he looks away with a swallow. 

“Not trying to get in the middle of your quest Barton.” Bucky adds, not sure where this is going but ready to dig in his heels. “But I know a lot of people who’d be sad if you met your end in some shitty AIM warehouse.” It’s not even close to the full truth but it’s what he’s willing to give right now. 

Barton looks back to him, his eyes shuttered. “They wouldn’t care. They shouldn’t at least.” Barton lets out a short, humorless laugh. 

“Finish that,” Bucky says nodding to the cigarette, “let’s go for a walk.” Barton doesn’t say anything else, just sucks on the smoke and Bucky slams the rest of his drink, waiting until the other man stubs out the butt in the ashtray before standing and leading him out of the bar. 

**_And doesn't scold me for smoking when I drink_ **

  
  
  


Clint has no idea why he’s doing this. 

That’s a lie. 

He knows exactly why he’s doing this but he’s not willing to think about it too hard because even though he forced himself to leave Bucky’s apartment a week ago to go nurse his wounds in private he’s been thinking about that morning ever since. The few hours he spent on that big comfy couch silently drinking coffee cracked something open in his chest and now it’s not just the adrenaline of a good fight Clint’s craving, it’s the feeling of contentment that he got from waking up safe and cared for. 

Clint knows it’s not permanent. No one can care for someone like him, not after everything he’s done but Bucky has done a pretty good job playing at it so far and it hurts. It hurts because Clint knows it won’t last and he knows it’s not real and he knows that if he lets himself get too used to the idea the universe will find a way to snatch the opportunity away from him like it has so many times before. 

So he waited a week, let his wounds heal, finished his research on the AIM flash drives hidden in his shitty stolen room and then realized that he does have a choice here. He doesn’t have to wait for the universe to take this away from him. He could find Bucky, tell him the story and make the waiting end. He won’t have to wait for that terrible feeling of rejection to fill his chest because he can put it there himself. It’s something to control, a bright point of pain he can give himself, a way to ground his life right before he goes off the deep end. 

Because he knows where the AIM Big-Boss is now and he has a plan and he’s pretty sure it’s not going to end with waking up in a warm guest bedroom this time. 

So he sought Barnes out, revealed himself at the bar, and now he’s walking side by side with the other man down a chilly New York street in the dark. Barnes seems relaxed, walking almost lazily at his side, letting their shoulders brush every few steps in a way that sends a jolt through Clint with every casual touch. They’ve been walking for several long minutes, the silence comfortable between them and Clint is trying to psych himself up to break it when Barnes beats him to it. 

“You know the rest of the team does care about you right?” He doesn’t look at Clint when he speaks, just keeps his eyes straight ahead and his back straight. 

“They shouldn’t.” Clint replies on instinct and then pauses, “You shouldn’t either. I’m not worth it.” 

Barnes stops, reaching out without warning to pull Cint to a stop as well and Clint’s entire focus is shifted to the warmth of Barnes’ hand through his thin jacket. Too thin for this weather really. He shrugs. 

“I’m not sure what you think you’ve done that --” 

Clint interrupts him because he’s never going to get a better opening than that, “I’m a murderer. When all of you turned to dust and we couldn’t get you back I just couldn’t be the person I was.” He stops to take a breath, “I went on a bit of a rampage to try and keep what was left of the world safe and I killed -- I killed a lot of people.” 

“We’ve all killed a lot of people Clint.” And the sound of his name in Barnes’ rough voice makes something deep inside Clint go wobbly. 

“Not like this and then to get you all back,” Clint looks away and he hates himself for the way his vision is blurring. “I let her die.” He says softly and the words hang between them in the cold night air. 

“Natalia?” Barnes asks softly and Clint lets out a sharp noise but Barnes is shaking his head, “Wilson told me about that, my guess is you didn’t let her do anything. Hell, I only knew her when she was young but even then no one let her do anything. She did what she wanted. Her whole life was her proving that she did want she wanted on no one else’s terms.” 

“You weren’t there.” Clint almost shouts the words because no one else had been there. No one else knew how desperate it’d been on that mountain. How hard he fought to be the one to make that sacrifice. Right up to the end, when she’d asked him to let her go… and he had. Giving in to one last request from the woman who he’d vowed to always allow a choice. 

“I bet she fought you for it.” Barnes says in that same low tone, his eyes scanning Clint’s face for confirmation. “The two of you, self sacrificing assholes. I bet you fought over who it would be and she won because she always won and now you’re here — what?” Barnes’ eyes flick over him with far too much insight, “Trying to make up for it? Trying to live up to her sacrifice? Attempting to join her?” He sounds just a little angry about it and Clint tries not to latch on to more proof that someone cares. 

“I have to do this.” Clint insists and Barnes’ hand on his arm tightens, pulling him in just a little closer. 

“You don’t.” He growls and he’s so close Clint can see the ring of dark blue around the outside of his gray eyes, he can feel the warm rush of air over his face as he breathes. “Not alone at least.” 

“You deserve your peace.” Clint says softly and he means it. He really means it because if anyone deserves to live in a beautiful apartment and rest it’s James Barnes. “I can do this so everyone else can have their peace.” 

“What about your peace?” Barnes asks and he looks so sad. Clint doesn’t want to make him sad. He wants to make him understand why he can’t care, make sure he understands why Clint isn’t worth his time. Instead Barnes’ mouth is pulled down in a little frown and his eyes are wide and concerned. 

“I’ll find some at the end.” Clint says softly and Barnes’ eyes close in understanding. 

“You’re an idiot.” Barnes mutters and maybe Clint is because in spite of everything, all his plans and conflicting thoughts, he still leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. He still shifts himself until Barnes’ hand on his arm goes loose and wraps low around his waist. He still lets his eyes drift closed. 

“Yea.” Clint breathes out his agreement before closing the miniscule gap between them to press their lips together. 

Clint meant it to be chaste. He just wanted a taste, something to take with him, a good memory to carry him through what’s to come. Instead, it’s like a he’s poured gasoline on an ember. Before he has a chance to break the contact and move away Barnes’ grip on him has tightened, the other man’s mouth opening under his to deepen the kiss and Clint lets him. He lets him suck at his bottom lip, lets him deepen things further with a flick of his tongue, lets him turn them both and step back until Clint is pushed against the rough brick of a nearby building. 

There’s no thought of stopping, if he wanted a good memory this is the one because Barnes has a hand deep in his hair and another tight on his hip and Clint is pretty sure he’s the one making that soft desperate noise he can hear over the pounding of his heart. He tilts his head for a better angle, tasting whiskey and smoke, and he can feel Barnes’ rough stubble under his fingers as he tries to pull the other man closer. He twists his fingers in the soft cotton over Barnes’ back and lets out another whine when there’s a scrape of teeth against his swollen lip. 

It’s Barnes who breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look Clint in the eye with a soft gasp. His eyes are huge and dark in the dim light of the street lamp overhead and Clint can see every puff of their combined breath between them. They’re both breathing heavy, Clint’s more than half hard in his pants, and he wonders if Barnes is too. He wants to push his hips forward and find out. Instead he drops his hands from the other man and forces himself to look away. 

This isn’t meant for him. 

Barnes stares at him for a long moment, searching for something Clint knows he won’t find before he slowly drops his hands back to his sides. He doesn’t move away though. “You still have the phone?” He asks and his voice is rougher than usual. 

“Yes.” Clint says softly. 

“You’ll reach out if you need me?” And Clint wants to cry because it’s too much. 

“Yes.” He agrees and Barnes blinks slow and they both know he’s probably lying. 

“Okay.” And just like that Clint’s cold as Barnes steps away, putting space between them. “Okay.” 

Clint flees. 

**_I want someone / Who listens when they've heard the story_ **

  
  


He shouldn’t have let him go. Bucky knows that. He knew it the minute he found him in that coffee shop almost three months ago but he really shouldn’t have let him go after that kiss. The kiss that Barton initiated. The kiss that left Bucky weak kneed, hard as a rock, and alone on a street at midnight trying to figure out what just happened. 

Now here he is, less than a day later, sitting in his apartment in the dark not sure what to do next. He tried going after him, as soon as he got his wits back he rushed to the shitty building he knows Clint’s been hiding in only to find it dark and empty. Stupid to let a kiss distract him like that because now Clint is completely in the wind and based on what he said last night, clearly headed for some kind of suicide mission. 

Bucky understands the compulsion. There were months after he broke free of Hydra that first time when he thought about it. Thought about running full speed into a base to take as many of the fuckers down with him as he could, no chance of coming home, no need to worry about the emptiness that might come after. He fought through it though, realized he had things he still wanted to do, parts of himself that weren’t as broken as he thought. He thinks maybe Clint realizes that too, deep down, but he’s too caught up in this idea that he’s not worth it to see them. 

It broke Bucky’s heart to hear him admit he’s willing to sacrifice himself to make sure everyone else gets some peace because Barton deserves a bit of peace too. He deserves someone looking after him, someone making sure he’s taking care of himself, and working to get a smile on his face. Bucky wouldn’t mind being that person. 

He really wouldn’t mind at all. 

He stares at the phone, silent and mocking on the table. Barton said he’d reach out if he needed help. They both know he was lying but maybe he will. Maybe Bucky shouldn’t wait. He found the man once, he could find him again. He shouldn’t though. As much as he wants to save Barton he knows the man has to save himself. No one else can pull him back from the path he’s on now. 

Bucky can be here though. He can be the person who’s there if — no when — Barton decides he’s ready to come in from the cold. 

When the phone does go off only a few hours later, Bucky almost drops it in his haste to read the message. 

**_And gives me enough space to breathe_ **

  
  


_If you don’t hear from me again don’t come looking._

**_'Coz I'm stubborn_ **

  
  


_You don’t get to say shit like that to me Barton. That’s not how this works._

**_Selfish_ **

  
  


_I’m just trying to do something worth as much as the rest of them._

**_And easily jealous at times_ **

  
  


_You don’t need to do anything to be worth it._

**_I'm hard to love_ **

  
  


_I’m too far gone._

**_And I just want someone_ **

  
  


_Not true by a long shot._

**_To try…_ **

  
  


He did it. 

There’s nothing left of AIM. 

There’s also not much left of him. 

He’s battered, bruised, and bloody. He’s also very cold and not sure he can keep the right amount of pressure on the bullet wound in his shoulder for much longer. It doesn’t help that he’s also trying to keep pressure on the deep stab wound in his thigh, or the cut on the back of his head or the cracked rib that’s making breathing pretty difficult. He did it though, he’s staring into the now lifeless eyes of Big-Bad-AIM-Boss-Number-One and he feels a lot more numb than he expected. Although he hadn’t expected to be feeling much of anything by this point so maybe he should take what he can get. 

He presses his fingers deeper into the wound on his thigh and then stops. Why bother, he can feel the blood loss starting to make his fingers numb, it’ll only take longer if he keeps trying to hold it in. Even as starts to pull his hand away there’s a flash of red in the corner of his eye and he tries to turn his battered head but he’s too slow and it’s gone. 

God, she’d be so pissed. More than pissed, she’d be furious with him. He came in here without an exit plan. He barely watched his own six. He may have finished the mission but he let himself get taken down at the end too and she’d never been one for unnecessary waste. This wasn’t a waste though. He had a reason, he cleaned out the last Big Bad in New York and now the rest of them can live their lives the way they deserve. 

But what about him? 

He squeezes his eyes shut against the memory of Barnes’ voice but it doesn’t help because Clint’s been thinking about that conversation and the kiss the followed since it happened. All through the setup, the infiltration, the fight, the aftermath — he keeps thinking about Barnes saying “No one let her do anything” …”I bet you fought for it and she won because she always won.” 

He’s right of course, they did fight for it and Clint wasn’t good enough to save her. Except maybe she was just good enough to save him and wouldn’t that be the final ironic nail in Clint’s coffin to get to the afterlife only to find her pissed as hell that he wasted her victory by dying in a shitty AIM warehouse alone. It doesn’t matter now though, because what’s done is done and he’s very clearly going to die here, going to bleed out onto this cold cement floor while staring at the bodies of the enemies he took with him. 

He takes his hand completely off the thigh wound and the hot rush of blood that follows the loss of pressure almost feels good. His fingers scramble at the zipper on his suit and he gets it down low enough to tug the phone out of the inner most pocket. It’s still in one piece and still on. He stares at the brightly lit screen for a moment before unlocking it, trying to ignore the smear of blood his fingers leave behind. If he’s going to die he can at least tell Barnes how to find his body. Let him know there’s clean up needed and maybe he’ll pass on the message to the rest of the team. Make sure they know they don’t have to worry anymore. 

His fingers shake as they type in the address and when he’s done and hit send he presses his head back against the wall. He feels bad to drag Barnes into this. He feels bad leaving him. 

He thinks now he might stay if he could. 

**_I want someone / Who can ground me when I'm too high_ **

  
  


Clint Barton is one lucky son of a bitch. 

This is the recurring thought that runs through Bucky’s head for days after he gets the text. The text that was nothing more than an address. The text which Bucky almost missed because he was about to get in the shower. The text that he could have ignored and didn’t. The text that got Bucky to a warehouse just in time to find an almost dead Barton leaning against a wall surrounded by dead AIM goons. 

It’s been a whirlwind since then. Patching Barton up enough to get him back to the apartment. Calling in the location to Wilson while staying cagey on what really happened. Almost taking Clint to the hospital when he spiked a fever a few hours later and still hadn’t woken up. Sitting by the bed for hours with medicine and cold washcloths, too scared to look away in case that was the moment Barton’s chest stopped it’s steady rise and fall. Three days later and the fever is gone, Clint’s been in and out of consciousness but never long enough to be truly lucid and Bucky is just hoping that he wakes up soon. 

Sam called on day two with a lot of questions and the very interesting news that it looked like this last battle took out the AIM headquarters. Bucky easily dodged the attempts to fish for more information and asked what now. The answer surprised him, he thought Sam would still be hot to chase down the mystery vigilante but instead he seemed willing to let it go. Admitting that endorsed or not the man did them a favor by cleaning up a mess they would have had to deal with eventually. Bucky just grunted his agreement and ended the call like all the others, with a false promise to find time to visit the base upstate sometime soon. 

It’s been three hours since he checked on Clint last and he’s making himself another cup of coffee before going to make sure the man is still asleep when a rustle from the direction of the spare bedroom has his head snapping up. It’s like a replay of that first time, Clint beaten and weak, leaning in the doorway wearing borrowed clothes and something about the sight of the other man in his worn sleep pants makes Bucky’s instinct to protect even stronger. 

He stares, eyes scanning up long legs, only one fully supporting weight, to a bare chest, still covered in bandages, before finally landing on half lidded eyes and he freezes. He’s not going to let him leave this time. Fuck independence and free will. He’s going to strap him to the bed and keep him here, safe and warm until he’s fully healed and those dark circles under his eyes are gone. He’d keep him even longer than that if he could. Clint makes a move like he’s going to leave the security of the door frame that’s holding him up and Bucky lurches forward, crossing the room in three fast steps to get there just in time to catch Clint’s weight before he goes down. 

Now it really is a replay of that first morning. 

Bucky maneuvers them carefully, hyper aware of all the places Clint is probably feeling pain, until they’re both on the couch and then because he has almost nothing left to lose, he doesn’t leave. Instead he presses his back firmly against the padded arm of the sofa and pulls Clint bodily towards him until the other man is almost in his lap, a heavy weight across his legs, face buried in Bucky’s neck. Bucky holds him there, burying one hand in the mess of his hair and rubbing the other up and down his back in long slow strokes. There’s a tense moment but it’s gone almost as soon as it arrives and Clint goes boneless, melting into the embrace. 

Clint’s crying. Not hard, but enough for a steady stream of wet to drip down Bucky’s neck where he’s got his face hidden and Bucky just tightens his hold, trying not to hurt but offer comfort all the same. Hands slide under his shirt and Clint’s calloused fingers are warm against his lower back. Bucky sucks in a rough breath and presses his face into dark blond hair. 

“Stay.” Bucky whispers and for a moment he thinks maybe Clint didn’t hear him, maybe his hearing aids were damaged in the fight or maybe he just doesn’t know how to say no. 

But then the hands on his back tighten and the head pressed against his neck starts to nod and Bucky feels a breath he didn’t know he was holding escape from between his lips. He presses a kiss into that messy hair and closes his eyes. 

This is good. 

This can be the beginning of something. 

**_Light up the dark side of my head_ **

  
  
  


It was easier than it should have been, and yet, still harder than Clint wanted, to go back to living. He knows that’s what this is now and he knows it’s what he wasn’t doing before. 

He knows it because of the way his body feels like it’s his again. He knows it in the way he’s able to laugh sometimes at the stupidest things again. He knows it in the look on Kate’s face when he turned up two months after everything to finally pick up Lucky. He knows it in the taste of dark roast coffee. He knows it in the eggs and bacon Bucky makes him almost every morning when he gets back from his run. He knows it in the feeling of mismatched hands sliding up his chest to pull him down for a kiss. 

He knows it in the way he can give Natasha her name back, even in his own head. 

He also knows it in days like today. Days when Bucky is busy with something for Sam, and Clint can take himself and his dog out for a coffee and a trip to the park. The late winter sun is warm on his face and he’s bundled up in a bright purple scarf that gentle hands tied around his neck with a kiss on his way out the door. He watches Lucky chase down a pretty Dalmation on the other side of the park and smiles to himself before taking a long sip of his coffee, turning the cup to admire the _Kofe_ logo on the side. 

Nat loved days like today. Nat would find the fact that Clint has shacked up with the former Winter Soldier hilarious. Nat would insist that his sneakers are too ratty to be seen in public. Nat would be unimpressed that he still doesn’t have a one year anniversary present for Bucky picked out. Nat would demand Clint take her for Thai food and then drag him out shopping for his boyfriend. Nat would be happy for him. 

So Clint’s been learning to be happy for himself. 

It’s a process that much is for sure, but there are things that make it easier. Lucky loses interest in his Dalmation friend and Clint tracks him as he suddenly shoots off for the other side of the park, ready to jump up and catch him until he realizes who he’s making a beeline for. Bucky is stepping through the second of two gates into the dog park and he kneels down to pet Lucky even as his eyes scan the space before landing on Clint. The way his face lights up when he smiles is blinding. Clint’s pretty sure his own smile matches. 

He waits. Watching the graceful play of thigh muscles under tight denim as Bucky struts across the grass, Lucky dancing around his feet until he drops onto the bench next to him. Clint leans over automatically, stealing a kiss that was freely offered. “Thought you and Sam were going to be busy all afternoon?” He holds out his coffee as well. 

Bucky takes the cup and sips it before passing it back and settling onto the bench with an arm over Clint’s shoulders. Clint melts into the contact like he always does, still so eager for his boyfriend’s touch. “It was the same old song and dance, just wanted consulting help until he actually wanted to convince us to come out of retirement.” 

Clint shrugs and shunts down so he can rest his head on Bucky’s chest. “You told him fuck no right?” 

“Used those exact words.” Bucky agrees, and his fingers scratch through the short hair at the base of Clint’s skull. “Then he invited us up to base for a team dinner.” 

“Mmhmm,” Clint hums and he doesn’t care that they’re in public, he’s about to just drop down, put his head in Bucky’s lap and take a nap. Content isn’t a word that really lived in his brain before this last year but now there are moments when he’s almost aggressively content. Sometimes they take him by surprise, and sometimes, like now, he sees them coming and just sinks into it. He’s not fighting anymore. 

“I told him if they want to see us they can come visit.” Bucky continues and Clint lets that float around for a few moments before bothering to respond. 

“So do we need to make up the guest room?” He finally asks, lifting his head just enough so he can see Bucky’s face. 

“Fuck no.” Bucky says and the laugh that tears from Clint’s chest bright and clear. “They can stay in a hotel. I don’t want their mess in our home.” 

“You let my mess in.” Clint teases, sitting up enough for Bucky to tighten the hand at the back of his neck posessively and it makes heat pool low in Clint’s stomach. 

“I like your mess.” Bucky says low and rough, “Your mess is perfect for me.” 

Clint kisses him, pressing their lips together just long enough and just wet enough to be a promise. “Why don’t we go home and I can try to make a mess of you.” He suggests and he loves the way Bucky’s eyes go dark even as his lips twist into a knowing smirk. 

“Deal.” Bucky says and he’s on his feet and whistling for Lucky so fast Clint has to catch himself on the bench so he doesn’t topple over. Laughing again as he follows his boyfriend’s fine ass the ten blocks to their bed. 

**_I want someone / To share my coffee and sunscreen_ **

  
  


Hours later Bucky is laying in bed, a heavy and sated Clint spread over his chest, Lucky curled up at their feet, trying to remember what he used to do at 3pm on Wednesday afternoons. He doesn’t have a routine anymore, not really, he’s not sure he could manage one with these two keeping him on his toes every day. Because Clint, once he found his way back from the dark, is almost more chaotic than the dog he’d brought home without warning almost a year ago. 

Bucky loves it though. 

He loves having the weight against his shoulder at night. He loves having the warmth of Clint’s smile aimed in his direction. He loves yelling at baseball games on the couch. He loves trading stories about past missions. He loves curling up together on the couch when they can’t sleep. He loves cooking for someone else. He just loves. 

He trails his fingers down Clint’s sweat damp back and revels in the shiver it sends through the other man. Looking down he finds blue eyes staring up at him, still hazy and warm from their recent activities, and the smile that tugs on his lips is involuntary. He presses a wet kiss to Clint’s forehead and uses one hand to hitch the other man’s thigh higher across his hips. 

He runs his fingers down Clint’s back again and is rewarded with another full body shiver and an attempt to snuggle closer. Bucky doesn’t mind, he prefers Clint as close as he can get him. Clint seems to have an ulterior motive though because the shift has put his thigh directly over Bucky’s still sensitive cock and he doesn’t miss the little rock Clint gives once he’s in position. Bucky just flexes the hand around Clint’s thigh until the other man lets out a low whine. 

**_My mornings, my stories and my bed_ **

  
  


“I love you.” Bucky whispers into sweaty blond hair and Clint freezes, eyes going wide and dark. 

“I love you too.” Clint breathes it out like a prayer, his voice thick, eyes suddenly glassy. “So much.” He adds before he surges up to capture Bucky’s mouth with his own and Bucky sinks into the kiss. 

Because this is forward. This is good. This is the future. 

  
  


**_Someone stubborn_ **

**_Selfish_ **

**_And easily jealous would be fine_ **

**_I won't mind_ **

**_If they're hard to love_ **

**_I just want someone_ **

**_To try_ **

  
  



End file.
